Greater Fulfillment
by Aurora-Borealis Coyote
Summary: "You want to be remembered? I can give you better, child." Eckhart decides Alfons may be able to be persuaded. Eckhart x Alfons


**I had always found Eckhart fascinating and I wonder how she'd interact with Alfons, given the chance (I like "what if" stories and crackish parings…:D) and she's not a reliable narrator all the time, but she certainly has a lot of interesting ideals that we see in the movie.**

**And poor Alfons. :/ **

_Come to me, see my truth, give what I need to take_

She watches him examining the large room in a sort of wonder, a sort of horror. He'll be used to it if all goes well, and if he doesn't, her plans will barely notice. If he stays for long enough, like Noah did- which is plausible. He needs hope. But she can give him better.

He's distrustful of her, she can tell. He doesn't look at her when she talks, he looks down- but she knows he's listening to each possible meaning that her words could possible have. She's told him so far the basics of her plan, just a bit less than what Noah's been told (just enough.)

"…what will happen to this world?" he asks quietly, trying to push fear from his voice. She's heard them. And she knows he's just another one who _cares _far too much for it to be in his best interests. Not like her. People have ties that bind them to traps disguised as happiness. There are fulfillments greater than such contentment, she knows.

"That isn't my focus," she tells him, lowering her gaze to his face. "You can't think about that right now." She fixes her eyes straight into his. He doesn't look away but it's obvious that he wants to. She knows why- he needs something that won't let him down. But she knows he's like most people, who care too much for trust. She can persuade him, but that mindset will still control him underneath, and that's how empires fall and that's how people like her are left to take the reins. He'll have to let her; they'll all have to.

"How can I know I can…believe you?" he asks. He asks too many questions and he expects too much, he expects the wrong miracles. He's almost pitiful, she thinks. But she can't feel too much for him. His feelings are not hers, and they have no connection and no obligation.

"Because," she taps her fingernails one by one repeatedly on the railing as she narrows her eyes and exerts her body, to his. "You're going to want to." He doesn't run or say a word- he'll probably stay, she thinks, if he hasn't left by now- but he opens his mouth as if trying to speak, only to put his hand to his face, a choking noise escaping his throat. No, she realizes, coughing. His eyes cloud in what she interprets as some pathetic form of sorrow as his hand lowers down to his waist.

His palm is stained in blood, and she's always been one to capitalize whenever possible, because life is short but radiance can be eternal. "Are you…unwell?" she cajoles in a smooth, clipped voice, the kind she uses to command weak soldiers. She knows the answer just as well as he does- she's at least partially right when she says that there's got to be something better, something that could be had if everyone took it. "Don't be afraid of telling me," she positions herself facing him so that he moves out of her path and that his back is to the railing. "I've known so many secrets that I don't think most of them are worse than another."

He doesn't open his mouth for a moment, but she wouldn't expect much else from a young man with a woman holding him close to her body. She can tell through his distrust of her he can still feel her as she moves closer, as she undoes a few of her buttons, as her expression stays as harshly placid as it always is. She sees his eyes linger on her pale, rich skin, her abundant chest, lingering longer than he intended.

"You're right," he's almost whispering as if he doesn't want anyone to hear. "I'm ill." And if he's vomiting blood, it's clear to her that 'I'm ill' is an extremely moderate way of saying so. He's not planning to see much of the future. And that is one weak spot she knows she can use to her benefit. Some say she's exploitative, but they're not fit for her ideas. "And I want to leave a trace of me behind when…when I die." He seems so calm as he says this, as if he's trying to disassociate the reality from himself (that's how she sees it.)

"You want to be remembered? I can give you better, child," she takes his chin in her hand, she knows she's gripping him hard, but she doesn't care. He stares vacantly, unmoving, waiting for her to continue telling him all the words she doesn't need to hear. "I can show you heaven," she can feel the anticipation of the grandeur that this new world can bring, she can feel it in her voice, feel it in her body- he can, too. Her tactics may not be noble, but they work.

"Heaven?" he questions, hope and doubt. She watches him tense under her grip as she drags a finger down the back of his neck slowly. He shivers, almost unnoticeably, at least to her.

"You'd just have to follow me. There are things out there, great and unbelievable, but they're meant to be seen by the right people. Are you the right kind of person?" she can tell he doesn't want to trust her, but he wants to trust her words. She can feel the heat of lust and illness in him. She can tell he may not follow, but for the rest of his life, he'll wonder what exact sort of paradise it would be- she knows that he'd be better off not needing to be forgotten than needing to be remembered here in this deteriorating country and this gradually more and more useless world.

"I don't know," he admits and she steps back, buttoning her jacket and not even bothering to look down as she looks at him, almost sympathetic, but not caring. He'll come, he'll go, just like most people in this world. He's staring at her, of course. She doesn't see a point in letting distraction take over, but that's how she wins.

"I'll remember," she says, "the one who didn't want to fade away, didn't want to even risk it." She puts in no emotion, words speak for themselves already. He's breathing deeply now, obviously from whichever sickness, and from all the other emotional, unnecessary hindrances foreign to her, but probably created by her.

So she has managed to convince many, but not this one. No matter. She knows her chances. And she knows even if he doesn't agree, he'll always wonder- is paradise worth risking fading away, worth risking death, worth risking forgetting yourself long before everyone else does?

She'll never wonder.


End file.
